


Call Me Maybe

by Rena



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/pseuds/Rena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Call Centre AU, in which Allison is the only thing that gets Stiles through the day, because, for some reason, he always gets the grumpiest guy ever on the line, calling to donate outrageous amounts of money to whatever charity they're supporting this time.<br/>Meanwhile, Derek enjoys nothing more than watching the livestream during call-in hour just to see how much he can rile up Stiles before he explodes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt taken from [this post](http://heathyr.tumblr.com/post/35825160255)

 

Allison looks up when he barrels through the door at the eleventh hour, just minutes before their shift starts, and raises her eyebrows.

“Am I late?” he asks, out of breath, skidding to a halt next to her and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Please tell me I’m not late.”

“You’re on time,” she says, surreptitiously running her hand across the cheek to wipe away the droplets of water he’s been getting all over her. Anyone else would’ve complained about getting them wet, but Allison, bless her heart, is too polite. “But you might want to change.”

Stiles grimaces, shifting on the spot and feeling the way his soaked T-shirt clings to his skin. There’s still cold rainwater running down his neck from where it had gathered in his hair and then making its way down his shoulders. He shudders, and the drops of water go flying. “Sorry,” he yelps quickly as Allison jumps back. “It’s pouring down and I forgot my umbrella.”

“I can see that,” she says dryly.

“I don’t have anything to dry me off,” Stiles moans, clutching his hair when he catches a look at himself in a nearby mirror. He looks like he just climbed out of a swimming pool, and there is no way he can work like that. “Finstock will _fire_ me.”

“I have a towel in my backpack,” Allison says. “I think if you take off the plaid shirt, you’ll be fine.”

“You are an angel,” Stiles tells her seriously and takes the towel she holds out, chucking his plaid shirt into his bag. He should probably wring it out before the water ruins his textbooks, but Finstock would be furious if he saw Stiles creating an ever bigger puddle on the carpet than he already is. He does not want to be sacked.

If Stiles is being honest with himself and the rest of the world, he has to admit that working in a call centre wasn’t his first choice of a job. He’d hoped to get something that paid better and was generally less stressful, or, you know, more reputable to help pay his college tuition, like maybe a position as a TA, or hell, even as a barista. At least he’d get tips then. And maybe meet people who are not his colleagues and often well into their plus thirties.

But unfortunately this is real life and not the kind of coffee shop story where the handsome customer falls in love with the barista. Instead, he’s holed up in a tiny cubicle for hours on end and mostly just taking down people’s names, bank account details and the sum they want to donate. It’s horribly monotonous, for the most part.

At least he doesn’t have to sell people unnecessary stuff or talk them into subscribing to magazines. No, he’s in the most respectable branch and his only task is to take the calls and write down the donations for whichever charity it is they’re currently collecting for.

The only real shining light, though, is Allison. Allison is awesome, and also probably the only thing that kept him from quitting his job after the first day (because really, working in call centres sucks balls). She’s the only co-worker who is his age and aside from Scott, his best friend since kindergarten, she is probably the single nicest and sweetest person he’s ever met, and he loves her. Not in the _I want you to be my girlfriend_ kind of way, more in a _You’re the sister I never had_ kind of way. Honestly, she’s the only thing that gets him through the day, especially when he has to deal with dickwads, which isn’t exactly a common occurrence considering they’re calling a donation hotline and are obviously trying to make the world a better place, but it does happen more often than one would think.

And unfortunately, because the universe hates him, Stiles _always_ ends up with the difficult callers. 

Especially on Friday evenings. They usually get a lot more calls during the weekend because they also have a livestream on television, and there is one guy in particular who calls between seven and eight pm, like clockwork, and for some unfathomable reason, he is directed to Stiles. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.

Stiles keeps hoping that maybe one day he’ll come to his Friday shift and not have to deal with the massive asshole that is Derek Hale, but the miracle has yet to happen. And considering how spectacularly bad his day started, he doesn’t think he’ll get lucky today either.

“Bilinski!” Finstock yells from the entrance to the studio – which is only about six feet away, but Finstock enjoys yelling, probably because he used to be a sports coach – and Stiles flinches and looks up. He knows he’s meant even though that is _not_ his last name. Finstock has trouble keeping the names of his employees straight, and he’s come up with about every variation of Stilinski known to men without ever hitting the mark.

“Yes, Sir?”

“You look like a drowned puppy.”

Stiles cringes. “Sorry, Sir. I’ll try and see if someone can lend me a shirt and-”

“You have two minutes to get to your desk,” Finstock says, waving his hand around like the maniac he is. “Stay the way you are. Having an attractive fella on screen will make the ladies go wild and donate more.” He claps Stiles’ shoulder. “Good thinking, Bilinski.”

Stiles makes a sound that maybe resembles a dying pterodactyl while Allison tries, and fails, to contain her laughter.

“Oh my God,” Stiles squeaks. “Please tell me you have some sort of acid brain bleach in your purse of wonder.”

“Sorry,” Allison says, and actually sounds a little apologetic despite laughing at his discomfort.

“I hate my life,” Stiles groans.

“Take it as a compliment,” Allison suggests. “You did fill out nicely since you started working out.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Take the compliment, Stiles. He’s right. It sounds creepy coming out of his mouth, granted, but you might as well show off your assets for the greater good.”

“I’m not a _stripper_ ,” Stiles says, appalled. “I don’t earn enough money for showing off my body on television.”

“Like I said, for the greater good, not for yourself. Why do you think I dress up for the livestreams?”

“You look lovely,” he tells her honestly. “But you know you wouldn’t have to. You’ve got everybody wrapped around your little finger and completely whipped within seconds anyway.”

Allison smiles, and pats his cheek. “Come on.”

They quickly make their way to their desks, which, for the first time as per special request (aka Stiles begging Finstock for several weeks) have been situated right next to each other, and Stiles plonks down on the chair while Allison tries to make his hair look more like an intentional mess than something that’s been the victim of a particularly forceful thunderstorm. He doesn’t think she’s making much progress.

“Thirty seconds,” one of the cameramen declares, and Allison slinks gracefully behind her desk.

“I hate my life,” Stiles says once more, for good measure.

Allison sends him a  sympathetic look. “Drinks later?”

“Definitely.”

“And we’re on air in three- two- one.”

Their lines are opened and his phone starts ringing immediately. Stiles heaves a sigh and, knowing that he won’t get to talk to Allison until their shift is over in five hours, picks up.

∞

Scott’s already perched on the couch when Derek comes home from work, staring at the TV screen with a distant, glazed look of pure and unadulterated adoration. Derek wonders whether he should be prepared for Scott to start drooling. He wouldn’t put it past him, to be honest.

“Hey,” he says, claws off his tie and tosses his briefcase into the nearest corner.

“Hey,” Scott replies absentmindedly when he throws himself down on the couch next to him, too busy looking at the TV as to actually look at him, which is something Derek is used to, so he doesn’t complain. This is standard procedure for them on Friday nights, which, admittedly, is maybe a little bit pathetic. But it’s more pathetic in Scott’s case than it is in Derek’s, so he can live with that.

Scott watches the donation livestream to stare at that pretty brunette who looks like she could conquer the world with a single smile.

Derek watches the show to actually donate money and to see just how much he can annoy the kid who usually picks up without getting him to explode. Which, okay, isn’t a very good excuse, but at least he does donate, and he even gets something for his money aside from the satisfaction that is having the moral high ground over anyone who doesn’t give several hundred dollars every week for various purposes, namely seeing the boy all flustered and filled with indignation and trying to keep his composure.

If you asked him, he wouldn’t be able why he took such childish joy in getting the guy riled up, but, Derek thinks, it is definitely worth every penny.

“You know,” he says after a moment of watching Scott waiting desperately for the moment the camera shows the girl he has a crush on, “it might help if you actually talked to her and made her aware of your existence.”

He doesn’t even know why he’s feeling so generous as to give relationship advice tonight. Not only does he have a spectacularly bad relationship record himself, it’s also none of his business. This is not what he and Scott do. They share a living space because Derek had the room and Scott needed cheap accommodation, and they don’t really talk that much, because Derek is working all the time and Scott is either at community college or at the vet clinic where he works part-time. And it’s not that they don’t like each other – most of the time, at least – but they don’t see each other much, and if they do, well, they don’t have that much in common, and Derek isn’t that loquacious on his best days either, so it’s mostly just peaceful cohabitation.

“How would I do that?” Scott asks.

Derek shoots him an incredulous look and, when Scott just continues to look confused, gestures towards the TV and then the telephone.

“Oh,” Scott says. “But I don’t really have that much money to spare and there’s no guarantee I’ll get her line anyway and-“

“It might take you a few tries,” Derek admits. God knows he’s disconnected the calls often enough after realising his Favourite Person To Torment hadn’t picked up. “But I’m the one covering the phone bill anyway, so don’t worry about a couple of cents.”

“Are you serious?”

“No,” Derek says, deadpan, until he realises his sarcasm might be lost on Scott. “Jesus, just do it. I’ll even lend you twenty bucks if you just stop moping.”

Scott is out of his seat faster than a bolt of lightning. "I’ll pay you back as soon as possible,” he promises, punching the number he must’ve learned by heart into the phone.

“Yeah, whatever,” Derek waves it off and stretches to pull out his cell from his pocket when, all of a sudden, Scott lets out a high-pitched scream.

Derek jumps. “What the hell, Scott?”

Scott is pointing at the TV, mouth hanging wide open. The pretty brunette is on screen, smiling quietly, and yes, Derek is aware that she looks gorgeous like that, but it’s no reason to freak out like that.

“Stiles,” Scott splutters.

Derek looks back at the television, and then he sees it: the person sitting next to Scott’s declared object of desire is the young man Derek calls to talk to. Which, in itself, is not a surprising revelation, if it weren’t for –

“You know this guy?” Derek asks.

“Yes,” Scott exclaims, pulling out his own cell phone and dialing. A second later, Derek sees the guy – Stiles? – twitch uncomfortably. The camera focuses on someone else, and a second later, Scott hisses, “what the hell, dude, you never told me you were working...yes, I know you’ve been working there for a month now and I know not to call you during work hours...yes, I listen to you, but _how could you not tell me when I’ve been telling you about this girl I like for weeks now_ and...no I don’t know what she’s called...Allison? Allison. God, yes, I’ll hang up now, no need to get snarky...I don’t owe you anything, dude, you kept vital information – oi!” Scott stares at his phone incredulously. “He hung up on me!”

The camera swings back to Stiles and Allison, and Derek sees Stiles surreptitiously shoving something into his pocket before picking up the phone again while Allison throws him a questioning look. Which is about the same time he realises that Stiles – Stiles? Really? – has lost his usual shirt and plaid combo and is currently dripping wet, his dark shirt clinging tightly to his chest.

Derek might make a strangled noise, and he’s never been more glad about Scott’s inability to focus on more things than one.

For four weeks straight he’s been calling Stiles and doing his best to be as gruff and unfriendly as possible, at first because, well, that first night he _was_ in a bad mood only to be lectured by Stiles about good behaviour and manners while Stiles was taking down his bank account details. After that, he mostly been amused by the way Stiles would flail and pout angrily whenever Derek was on the phone. He enjoyed watching that.

He never thought Stiles was attractive before. He thought Stiles was sort of cute, but the multiple layers of clothing had done a good job hiding his perfectly defined but not bulky muscles which are now on display. That in combination with his perfect mouth and ridiculous hair is...well. He thinks he knows why the camera is on Stiles and the girl a lot more than usual, now.

Derek shifts, suddenly tense and hoping he doesn’t pop an unwanted boner, because that’s seriously the last thing on earth he needs right now. “What?” he demands. That, as Scott very well knows, is code for _tell me what’s going on as briefly as possible while still covering the most important points._

“Remember when I told you about Stiles?” Scott asks.

Derek thinks back to the few conversations they’ve had about friends and family members, and yes, he does remember Scott mentioning someone going by that name and thinking it was ridiculous. He grunts non-committally.

Scott looks affronted. “My best friend, Stiles?”

“Ah, yeah.” It doesn’t really ring a bell.

“So, he’s at Berkeley, right? And he told me he had a job at a call centre but I hadn’t realised it was _this_ call centre.”

“You’ve been watching the livestream all along,” Derek asks, “without noticing your best friend showing up on screen?”

“Um,” Scott says. “Yeah?”

Derek thinks that in this case it’s probably for the best if he doesn’t tell Scott that when he’s donating he’s usually talking to Stiles. “Well,” he says to make sure Scott doesn’t make that connection, “now you know her name.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, grinning happily.

“God, take your good mood elsewhere,” Derek grumbles. “If you’re going to jerk off to her voice when you call her then at least go to your fucking room.”

Scott meeps and protests, but ultimately retreats to his bedroom, leaving Derek to scowl at the screen whenever Stiles comes into view.

“You will not be mooning over this guy from afar,” he says sternly. “No calling today. No.”

He picks up his cell anyway.

∞

Stiles clonks his head against the table. Repeatedly.

It doesn’t help to overcome his agony, because he is not drunk enough yet. “Why me?” he whines miserably. “Why is it always me?”

Allison sets down another cocktail in front of him. “ _That guy_ again?” she asks, her tone implying that she knows exactly who Stiles is talking about. How couldn’t she, he always ends up complaining about Derek Hale when they go on their usual _let’s celebrate Feierabend_ trip. “Is it really that bad?”

“This time it was even worse than usually,” Stiles moans and buries his head in his hands. His forehead hurts. “I mean, I know people can be dicks, but he is the king of dickish people, okay, and _why does he always end up on my line???_ ”  He sighs. “I must’ve pissed of some vindictive deities in my past life.”

“Come on, he can’t be that bad.”

“He kind of is.” Stiles rakes his fingers through his hair, still not used to the fact that it’s actually long enough to tear at it now. Maybe he should cut it off again to avoid ripping it out completely. “I mean, the only thing he has to do is state his name, bank details and what sum he wants to donate to which charity. That would usually be a one minute phone call but he manages to question my competence and turn it into five minutes of being an absolute asshole without even _saying anything_. How do you do that? I mean, how do you give off the _I want to eviscerate the entire world_ vibe over a phone line without even saying anything that’s off protocol? And I swear, he was even crankier than usual tonight.”

“He gives an awful lot of money to a world he hates,” Allison points out matter-of-factly.

“That’s the most confusing thing about all this,” Stiles says. “Why does he keep donating if he’s such a dick who hates everyone?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“No conversations that stray from business,” Stiles shoots back automatically. Rule #3. Finstock is quite uptight about it. Rightly so, probably. Some of his colleagues – himself included – could talk someone’s ear off.

Allison snorts softly. “As if you don’t make small talk every time,” she says. “And don’t think I missed you whipping out your cell during livestream either.”

“In my defence, I thought it was an emergency,” Stiles says and takes a sip of his cocktail. ”Scott doesn’t usually call during working hours.”

“Scott?”

“Yeah, well, you know, Scott.”

“Oh. Yeah, right.”

He could swear Allison blushed.

“Come on, no more talk about work, or college, or anything stressful,” she says. “Let’s get drunk before we actually have to study for finals.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles says. The sound of their glasses clanking against each other is music in his ears.

∞

“I’m starting to suspect a conspiracy,” Stiles says one week later when he picks up the phone and a familiar, annoyed voice reaches his ears.

“What?”

“Never mind,” Stiles says, tapping away on his keyboard. “Sum and charity?”

“I-“

“Derek Hale, preferred payment is Master Card, number 5490 1234 8794, valid until May 2014,” Stiles rattles off. “So, sum and charity”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Then, Derek Hale says flatly, “you know that by heart.”

“Dude,” Stiles says easily, “you are the only person I know who calls every freaking week. After five consecutive weeks, you bet your ass I know your bank and contact details. Be glad, you get a more personalised customer service. You can use less words than before, that should make you happy.”

“I am perfectly capable of speaking,” Derek says icily.

“I noticed. Your speciality seems to lie in the field of making people think you want to murder them.” Stiles slaps his hand across his mouth. “Forget I said that.” Wow, taking advice from Allison was so not working out for him.

“I don’t want to murder you,” Derek says after a beat.

“Well, that’s...reassuring?” Stiles ventures.  “Not that I-“

“Two thousand dollars to Doctors Without Borders,” Derek interrupts him gruffly and hangs up.

Stiles stares at the phone. “Well,” he says eventually, putting the speaker down, “that went well.”

He glances at Allison for support, but she is giggling and blushing and yeah, definitely in no state of noticing his misery.

∞

“Did Scott call again?” he asks once they are seated in the back corner of their favourite bar.

Allison freezes. “How do you-“

Stiles would really like to insist he’s psychic, but he isn’t. “He...told me?”

The drink almost slips out of Allison’s hand. Stiles stares at her for a moment. “So,” he begins, “I have a feeling you should accompany me home for spring break.”

“I-“

“I’ve been listening to Scott waxing poetry about your perfection for over a month now, without knowing it was you he was talking about. I know you’ve already given him your number and you’re talking all the time. You two are ridiculous, and I can’t take it anymore. You’re coming,” he says resolutely.

Allison stares at her Tequila Sunrise as if it’ll give her all the answers. “Okay.”

“If you two end up marrying and having a fuckton of children,” Stiles slurs, “I demand privileges.”

“Godfather?”

“Definitely.”

“Deal.”

∞

Derek looks up from his cell phone at which he’s been glaring for the last fifteen minutes when Scott prances into the room. “You are way too cheerful.”

“I talked to Allison.”

Well, that explains everything. All Scott has said over the last week had been in some way related to Allison. It’s probably for the best. This way, he at least hasn’t noticed that Derek has a thing for his best friend. “She’s working,” Derek says, pointing at the screen.

“Uh, yeah? I mean before that.”

“She gave you her number?”

“Yeah.” Scott grins. “Stiles keeps saying he should be paid for getting us to hook up.”

Stiles. Who’s just told him he gives off serial killer vibes. Derek grits his teeth. “Does he.”

“Yeah. I think he’s already making plans for our wedding.”

Derek grunts.

∞

“Okay so I think I offended you last time, and....I’m sorry,” Stiles says the next time he picks up the phone. It’s been two weeks since he basically called Derek a murderer in the making and he didn’t hear anything from him last week.

If anything, Stiles should have been glad. Not having to put up with the annoyance that is Derek Hale every week should be a good thing, right? Maybe he was just patched through to someone else. Or maybe he’d just decided that he’d spent enough money on charities (because seriously, Derek must be crazy rich to give that much away every week). It’s not like Stiles cares.

Except he does, and he’s been nervous and jittery and straining Allison’s nerves since last weekend, and he shouldn’t have been so glad to hear Derek’s voice upon picking up.

He shouldn’t be able to identify Derek’s voice that easily, either.

There’s a long silence on the other end of the line, and Stiles feels his leg starting to bounce. He can’t help it; it’s an involuntary reaction to tense situations. It’s a good thing Allison knows him well enough to just clamp down a hand on his knee and keep him still without so much as looking at him.

“Dere- I mean, Mr Hale?”

“Okay.”

“Cause I really didn’t mean to imply – okay?”

“Okay.”

“Uh.”

“Stop flailing, you’re going to knock over everything on your desk.”

Stiles flails some more. “Oh my God, are you watching me right now?”

“Obviously,” Derek says dryly. “That’s what the livestream is for.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles says. “You’ve been watching me.”

“I-“ he can hear someone shuffling. “You get all angry when you talk to me. It’s funny to watch.”

“You fucker,” Stiles breathes. “I was gonna ask you last time why you did it, you know, and kept doing it if you hated everyone so much but now I see it was all just a ruse.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The donations,” Stiles cries. “Like, you’re such an asshole to me but you donate money to puppy rescue stations and water charities and stuff and I never knew if you cared or wanted everyone to die a horrible, painful death. I don’t know, you’re just so contradictory, do you have a split personality or something?”

“I don’t think that’s how schizophrenia works.”

“I _know_ ,” Stiles falls back into his seat, defeated.

“I also don’t think it’s appropriate for you to insult me.”

“You like my mouth,” Stiles shoots back automatically before he freezes and his mind takes a trip into the gutter. “That came out wrong.”

Derek makes a strangled noise.

“Please forget I ever said that.”

Derek snorts, sounding amused. “I get the feeling you put your foot into your mouth a lot.”

“Amongst other – oh my God, what is _wrong_ with me?”

It takes a moment to register that Derek is laughing at him.

“I think I’m going to hang up now.”

“I haven’t donated anything yet,” Derek reminds him.

“Yeah. Right. Um, so?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Um,” Stiles says, “Two and a half thousand for Save the Children?”

“Good guess,” Derek says.

When he adds nothing else, Stiles types it in. “If I had guessed more, would you have said yes anyway?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I just don’t get you,” Stiles admits and is met with heavy silence. If he couldn’t hear Derek breathing, he’d assume the guy had hung up. “Thank you for your generosity,” he says quickly. Standard procedure. “Have a good day.”

He’s almost put down the speaker when he hears Derek’s voice again and yanks it back to his ear. He barely manages to catch what Derek says.

“You’re right,” Derek says quietly. “Sometimes I do hate the world.”

Then there’s a loud _click_ and the line is disconnected.

∞

Derek watches the way Stiles’s lips move and how he waves his hands around, how he keeps scratching his chin and running his fingers through his hair and chewing on the end of his pen, and wonders if this counts as stalking.

Probably.

He waits till he sees Stiles’ tell-tale grin that usually signals the end of a successful transaction and punches in the numbers he has, by now, memorised. Forwards _and_ backwards. He gets lucky; Stiles picks up at first try.

“I’ve been waiting for you to call,” Stiles says. “I won’t be there next week because spring break starts, so...”

Derek startles. “How did you-“

“Caller-ID,” Stiles says easily. “We’re not supposed to have them, but whatever. I trust you to not rat me out. I just use it to see if you are the caller anyway.”

“You recognise my number.”

“...Yes?”  Stiles answers hesitantly, and the camera’s not on him right now but Derek just knows he’s biting his lip.

He swallows. “If you have it memorised,” he says, “then maybe you should call me for a change when you’re not working.”

There's a pause. Stiles clears his throat. “I could do that.”

“Are you going home for spring break?” Derek asks.

“Yeah, I am. You know, visit my Dad, catch up with friends, get stupidly drunk once exams are over, the whole shebang.”

“Dating?”

“Maybe?” Stiles says, sounding unsure. “Why?”

“Scott tells me you enjoy nothing more than bad horror movies. There’s one coming out this weekend.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles says faintly. “Oh my God.”

Derek blinks. “Stiles, are you alright?”

“Oh my God,” Stiles repeats, for good measure. “You’re that Derek. Scott’s flatmate Derek. I didn’t – how did I not make that connection? When I saw the caller-ID I should’ve realised you were from Beacon Hills. You know my _name_.”

“To be fair,” Derek says, “I didn’t know you were Scott’s friend until he finally manned up and called Allison.”

“You lent him money for that,” Stiles remembers. “You probably had to listen to him as much as I did and you managed not to strangle him. You’re actually a nice person, aren’t you, despite Scott’s complaints about your monosyllabic grunts and allegedly unforgiving regime at work.”

“Yes to the first two questions. I’m not sure about the last one.”

“You’ve watched me.”

“Yes.”

“Just like with Allison and Scott, I don’t know whether that’s creepy or endearing.” Stiles huffs out a laugh. “Man, I don’t really know anything about you aside from what Scott tells me and what I’ve learnt over the past few weeks,” he continues, and Derek’s stomach does an uncomfortable somersault, “which, to be honest, is not much. I don’t know what you do, I don’t even know what you look like.”

“You know my credit card number,” Derek says jokingly.

“I think I’m a little in love with you,” Stiles admits.

“Okay,” Derek says, taking a deep breath and ignoring the joy bubbling up inside him.

“Allison and I are coming on Wednesday. I – oh, shit, that’s my boss. I gotta-“

“You know what to do,” Derek says. “Talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies. “Yeah, definitely.”


End file.
